


that doesn't lead towards love ought to be forsaken

by pyotr



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Love Confessions, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, arthur gets his gay cherry popped, in a hotel room...............
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 16:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyotr/pseuds/pyotr
Summary: “mister mason,” arthur says as he nods to the bartender, and a glass slides down the bar towards him, two fingers of whiskey that he throws back without so much as a flinch.albert’s almost impressed. “mister morgan.”they pause there for a moment, silent and awkward, as arthur fidgets with the empty glass and albert pushed his food around with his fork. finally, arthur says, “feelin’ any better?”“oh, yes,” albert replies emphatically. “the concussion laid me out for about two days, but that’s since cleared up. my wrist is still a smidge sore, but really only when i twist it too far.”“good,” arthur replies. “that’s good.”





	that doesn't lead towards love ought to be forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by textpost by lone-cosmonaut on tumblr, which can be seen [here](https://lone-cosmonaut.tumblr.com/post/183758645346/albert-getting-hurt-during-one-of-his-ventures)
> 
> 'wapiti' really is another name for the american elk, and is in fact what american elk are known as in the rest of the world

“did you know that the native peoples here call them wapiti?” albert muses as he fiddles with his camera and arthur, half dozing against a tree nearby, hums idly in response. “in fact, what europeans consider to be elk are what we know as moose. near every other region in the world refers to them as wapiti, as well, even though the term originated among the shawnee indians. absolutely fascinating, don’t you agree?”

he and arthur had developed a system of sorts where every few weeks or so they’d link up in valentine, and albert would save his more dangerous or wide-ranging shoots until then, and arthur would come with him. it was mutually beneficial: they enjoyed each other’s company, and it was almost like a vacation.

if a vacation occasionally included wolves, or cougars, or alligators, or bears.

this time albert had set himself to following stories to the north, of a white-pelted elk that moved among the herds in the mountains, invisible in the snow and bright as a star in the dark underbrush. he’d grown fond of that, of late, striving to photograph animals that had ascended to some type of local notoriety, and most of the time it wasn’t even all that dangerous.

“there’s bears that far north,” arthur had said when albert told him of his plans. “not many people, either.”

“then it’s good i won’t be going alone,” albert had replied primly, “isn’t it, mister morgan?”

in the end, though, it really was his own fault. he had gotten closer than he should have, emboldened with every foot he gained where the elk didn’t bolt, until he was maybe two, three yards away, the only care the snow-white animal giving him evidenced in the way its ears swiveled towards him. and then the elk had startled- a distant wolf’s howl- and jumped to tense attention for a heartbeat before leaping in the opposite direction, and towards albert.

he yelped and threw himself backwards on instinct, foot catching on some stone or uncovered root, landing strangely as the elk bounded away. his vision had blacked- when he opened his eyes, everything swam and pulsed in time with the beat of his heart, pain sharp and stabbing at the back of his head. his wrist, too, ached and throbbed, and when he tried to move it- tried to push himself up to sit- the white-hot  _hurt_ that had lanced up his arm had made him whimper.

arthur’s there, though, above him, his face cast into shadow by the light sky when albert slits his eyes open. there is a warm, calloused hand pressed to his cheek, and albert focuses on breathing.

“you feel like you can sit up?” arthur asks him, gruff, and it may have been the bump on the head but albert liked to think that there was a thread of concern laced through his tone. “where’s it hurt?”

“everywhere,” albert answers weakly, but he manages to sit up with arthur’s help, his head spinning; he squeezes his eyes shut against the queasiness. “good lord, i’ll have to make up some impressive story for all the scrapes i’ve earned myself, won’t i?”

arthur chuckles- a low, warm sort of sound- and his hands are gentle as he looks over albert’s injured wrist, when he helps him to his feet. he wobbles a little but keeps his balance, even though his head throbs, even though he feels like one giant bruise. arthur says, “i think your horse bolted, mister mason.”

albert’s grimace tightens. “she was a rental.”

“weren’t much of a horse, anyway,” is all arthur says before he turns to fetch his own, a big, sturdy ardennes that just might be of a height with albert. he hauls himself up into the saddle- somehow- and then leans down to offer a hand to albert. “get on up here, then.”

albert gives them both- arthur  _and_ the horse- a doubtful look. “i’ve seen you ride, mister morgan. i’m not entirely sure i’d be able to hand on, even if i were uninjured.”

with what may have been a roll of the eyes (arthur’s hat was angled down, casting his face into shadow, and so albert really wasn’t quite sure) arthur readjusts himself to sit further back in the seat. it’s still not quite to albert’s liking- there was always this strange bit of nerves he got around the outlaw, fluttering and giddy, and they sparked to life at the thought of being pressed so closely together- but it was a fair distance back to any bit of civilization, and albert wasn’t wholly sure just how far his wobbly legs would carry him.

without a word he takes arthur’s hand, grunting as he’s pulled up. it’s a bit of a challenge to do one-handed, a fair bit of scrambling and shifting, but eventually they settle. it’s a bit awkward, what with albert’s height and the saddle not being made for two grown men, and the horse snorts and throws its head, but they settle front-to-back, as comfortable as the situation allowed.

neither spoke for a long, long time. the bouncing made albert’s head ache and he felt as if he were holding his breath; arthur’s arms bracketed him on either side, and his hands would occasionally brush his thighs with the gait of the horse. he could feel arthur’s breaths warm on his neck, the way the few words he’d spoken rumbled through him. 

but arthur was very, very still behind him, stiff, every part of him pulled taut. albert did his best not to move, not to lean back against him; he’d never bothered to be subtle about his admiration of the other man, but he’d hardly wish to see arthur go detached and distant over something so trivial as a horseback ride.

regardless, arthur seemed happy enough to pass him off to the doctor when they rode into valentine that evening, helping him off the horse and carrying his equipment, but never once meeting his eye.

“thank you mister morgan, really,” albert says to him as the doctor splints his wrist; sprained, he’d been told, luckily not broken, though there was sadly enough nothing to be done for his head. “i’m sure i’d have made something out there a lovely dinner if you hadn’t been there.”

arthur thumbs the brim of his hat and dips his head and mutters something about it being no issue, and when the doctor prices his services and albert reaches for his wallet, he insists on paying, too.

and then he leaves through the door, long, fast strides, without so much as a parting word or backward glance.

* * *

 

albert thinks on that a lot, in the following weeks, of arthur’s breath on his skin and heat at his back, the gentleness of his hands. he thinks of how they had fit together so closely when pressed, and he feels flustered and warm, like he was seventeen all over again.

but he thinks, too, of the stiff way arthur had held himself, of the way his words and easy manner had dried up, the way he’d looked just about anywhere but at albert’s face. it had been nearly two months since albert had been to valentine; he takes dinner in the saloon on the next day he and arthur had agreed to meet, and he fully expects the other man to not show up.

he was surprised, then, to see the man himself wander in through the batwing doors, worrying his hat in his hands. he glances about the room- open and loud, raucous with the encroaching evening-  and makes his way over to the bar. albert holds his breath.

“mister mason,” arthur says as he nods to the bartender, and a glass slides down the bar towards him, two fingers of whiskey that he throws back without so much as a flinch.

albert’s almost impressed. “mister morgan.”

they pause there for a moment, silent and awkward, as arthur fidgets with the empty glass and albert pushed his food around with his fork. finally, arthur says, “feelin’ any better?”

“oh, yes,” albert replies emphatically. “the concussion laid me out for about two days, but that’s since cleared up. my wrist is still a smidge sore, but really only when i twist it too far.”

“good,” arthur replies. “that’s good.”

they stall again, the two of them suspended in quiet, before albert sighs and favors the other man with a smile. “i really am quite glad to see you, arthur.”

arthur watches him for a moment, contemplative- and albert would have bet any amount of money that it was something  _more,_ too, arthur’s blue eyes flicking briefly downwards- before giving a smile of his own, smaller and slower and more reserved than albert’s but no less genuine. he says, “almost didn’t show up?”

“why not?” albert asks, curious despite the small seed of guilt that plants itself in his gut.  _of course_ his regard- though exacerbated by necessary closeness- would discomfort arthur, because while arthur may not have been  _normal_ he at least wasn’t morally corrupt, not like albert, not like men like albert.

“oh, just,” arthur says, and he leans forward against his bar, shoulders rounding. he glances away, turning just enough that albert can’t fully see his expressions, “busy, y’know.”

“fair enough,” albert says casually. “i’d thought it may have been something to do with your odd behavior.”

the hunched line of arthur’s shoulders tighten, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t turn to meet albert’s eyes.

“whatever i did,” albert says quietly, “i’m sorry. i just hope that i haven’t lost your friendship.”

and, oh, arthur starts at that, favoring albert with a brief, surprised glace before he shifts on his feet, almost guilty. he toys with the cord wrapped ‘round the band of his hat, set on the bar by his elbow; there’s a grimace twisting his mouth, creasing the corners of his eyes.

arthur says, “you ain’t done nothin’, mister mason, nothin’ at all.”

he hesitates for a moment and it’s albert’s turn to watch, now, the outlaw caught awkward and off-footed. he runs a hand though his hair (a bit longer now than before, shaggy, just as the growth of stubble along his jaw has grown into a soft beard); he gestures to the bartender for another drink, and throws it back same as the first when it arrives.

finally, he says, “just been thinkin’, is all.”

albert huffs out a sigh and sets his fork down with a quiet scrape against the plate, and he reaches out to pat arthur’s arm as he slips off the stool. “walk with me, mister morgan.”

arthur gives him a glance but straightens and settles his hat on his head regardless, thumbing out a few dollars to leave on the bar- very obviously more than he owed for the drinks, and for some reason this thoughtless generosity warms albert, very nearly brings a smile to his face. they’re quiet as they leave the saloon, as they walk down valentine’s main street, their steps squelching in the mud.

“despite how it may sometimes appear,” albert says quietly after a while, “i’m not an idiot, and neither am i blind. something happened the last time we spent time together, and i’d like the chance to explain myself.”

arthur grunts, and when albert looks askance at him there is a bemused sort of look about him, mouth pulled into a frown and a furrow in his brow as he glances at albert in turn. “explain yourself?”

“yes,” albert says, even as something nervous clenches in his chest. “i want to say firstly that it has never been my intention to offend. as a friend i realize that i have never been quite so subtle as i should have been--”

“albert,” arthur cuts in, “what in the god damn  _hell_ are you talkin’ about?”

albert blurts, “i do quite believe i am in love with you, mister morgan.”

when arthur does nothing but stare- no words, no response,  _no disgust-_ albert swears that he could have dropped dead then and there. his heart thunders in his chest and blood rushes in his ears, drowning out all other noise; it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just him and arthur, everything else feeling distant and far away. he wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not.

“you could’ve just led with that,” arthur says finally, his voice odd. there’s a strange look on his face, and if albert’d been a more confident man he would’ve called it hope. “save us both the trouble.”

“trouble of what?”

he grimaces, gesturing vaguely between them; albert holds himself very, very still. “all’ve this... mess.”

albert swallows thickly and opens his mouth to speak but finds his words stuck in his throat, at the back of his tongue. there’s so much he wants to say, so many thoughts he wants to give life to, but instead he finds himself reaching out and catching arthur by the lapels of his duster, pulling him close.

the kiss itself is nothing spectacular, clumsy and demanding with too much teeth and not enough subtlety, albert all but groans into it anyway when arthur’s hands settle almost hesitantly against his back, pressing him closer. but the alley they’d tucked themselves into was muddy and dark and, quite frankly, not exactly the most romantic place albert would have liked, though it certainly wouldn’t have been the worst, either.

“i’m renting a room,” albert says, pulling back just enough to whisper the words between them; arthur ducks for another kiss but albert turns his head just so, and arthur huffs a sigh.

“so what?” he says.

“meet me there.”

* * *

 

the inn at valentine is decent enough, cheap and with clean beds and an owner who didn’t ask many questions. still, though, he’d asked arthur to wait a few minutes before following him so as not to arouse any inappropriate suspicions, regardless of the fact that they would have been  _true._

(it was no secret that there were prostitutes who shared a room at the inn when they weren’t boarding at the saloon; albert was a common enough face that, when it was established he’d had no interested in hiring any of them, the ladies began to invite him over for tea in the morning when he was just waking and they were just returning from whoever’s bed they had spent the night in. 

in between complaining about various johns, they’d favor him with knowing looks; the sheriff here in valentine was overzealous in his enforcement and the innkeeper, they had told him, would turn a blind eye to anything for the right amount of money. albert had kept quiet and busied himself with his tea as an embarrassed flush crept up his neck.)

a knock on the door brings him from his pacing, the noise so quiet he might not have heard it over his thoughts, but when he opens the door arthur is there, shoulders rounded, hat pulled down over his eyes.

something like relief swoops low in albert’s stomach; he hadn’t realized it until that moment, but he’d half-believed that arthur wouldn’t come. it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been stood up, but it certainly would have been the most hurtful. but arthur is here, and albert feels the smile spread across his face before he really thinks about it.

he reaches to pull arthur into the room and arthur allows it, but when he presses forward for a kiss arthur leans away, turning his face just enough that albert’s lips graze his cheek instead. he curls his hands over albert’s where they are clutched in his shirt and begins to pry his fingers away.

albert says, “what’s wrong?”

“i want,” arthur begins, and then stops, a frown on his face. “if we’re gonna... do this, you gotta know--”

“i know enough,” albert cuts in primly, and a little of the offense he feels seeps into his tone, as if he weren’t an adult capable of making his own decisions.

“i’m a criminal,” arthur tells him harshly, leaning in just the slightest bit. “i’ve lied, and killed, and robbed people who ain’t deserved none’ve it. i’m tellin’ you now, i’m givin’ you an out. i’ve got a price on my head.”

“you must think me quite stupid,” albert says, though he sounds more mystified than angry, his frown pensive; surprise flickers over arthur’s face, then a little bit of guilt, before he shutters his expression. “or at the very least tremendously unobservant. mister morgan, there are wanted posters with your face on them from here to annesburg and saint denis. i’m not such a fool as to miss them.”

arthur looks startled then, rearing back a half step, but when his grip on albert’s hands loosen albert just grasps at his wrists. arthur says, “mason...”

“i’m no fool,” albert says, “though i may seem it sometimes. i can make my own decisions, and i’ve decided on this.”

“albert,” arthur says, this time more insistently.

“and you can, too,” albert continues. “you can change your mind, too, that’s alright. i’d understand, even.”

they hang there in the silence for a moment, for a heartbeat, and in lieu of an answer arthur pulls albert to him, pressed together in an inelegant kiss. he is rough at first but between one breath and the next he gentles, almost sweet, his hands broad and warm on albert’s sides, even through the cotton of his shirt. albert grips at arthur’s collar and walks them both backwards towards the bed, and when the back of his knees bump the mattress he pulls arthur down with him and arthur comes easily enough, nosing along albert’s jaw and scraping his teeth light over the other man’s throat just enough to make him gasp.

the attention is nice of course, pleasant,  _wanted._ but arthur is very much not what albert had expected; a little guiltily he admits that he had thought arthur’s manner to reflect his exterior, a rough and demanding sort of lover, but instead the man was so gentle that it bordered on hesitancy. 

albert had experienced little enough tenderness in his life, from lovers perhaps least of all. 

it’s good, the light touch of arthur’s hands and his weight pressing albert down against the lumpy mattress; albert tugs harder on his shirt and grinds against the thigh pressed between his legs. arthur makes a noise caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan, breathing sharply against albert’s throat.

“off,” albert murmurs almost breathlessly, his hands pushing aside arthur’s suspenders and going to work at the buttons on the outlaw’s shirt. arthur sits up and his hands set to the task as well, fumbling, and though albert follows him up he bats his hands away, far more deft, far less  _nervous._

“albert,” arthur starts, and then sighs when albert presses a kiss to his collarbone, drags his fingers over his ribs.

“yes?”

“you too,” is the response, and starts on albert’s shirt as well, already unbuttoned at the top. albert lets him, drinking in the focused expression on arthur’s face, the way his lips part just slightly and his brows furrow; he makes the tiniest noise when arthur combs his fingers through the dark curls on his chest as if in fascination.

albert catches his hand and presses a kiss to arthur’s knuckles. he near-preens at the attention; albert knew he was far from unattractive, but a reminder never hurt anyone. he says, “i’m assuming you’ve some experience in his.”

arthur colors at that, flush creeping up his neck, turning his already perpetually-weathered face ruddy. he wasn’t attractive when he blushed- his face turned blotchy and red and his expression pinched with embarrassment- but albert found himself charmed regardless. arthur says, “with women, sure.”

and albert’s both surprised and not. he tended to assume on principle that in any given crowd he was alone in his preferences, but arthur had been so good-natured towards him that it was hard to resist flirting; even then arthur hadn’t seemed to feel any sort of disgust, and it had never occurred to albert that perhaps the man was just  _oblivious._

“well,” albert says, and then clears his throat. he nudges arthur just slightly and the other man rolls so they are laying face-to-face, bed barely big enough. “let me?”

arthur opens his mouth as if to say something and pauses, his mouth closing with a click. instead he nods mutely and albert can’t help but grin; he kisses him again and arthur leans into it, a soft noise in the back of his throat when albert nips at his lip. his skin is almost over-warm when albert presses his palm to his ribs.

gently, gently, he maneuvers them both so that arthur is flat on his back, albert perched between his spread legs. he looks with a photographer’s eye, he can’t help it: arthur, attractively disheveled with his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, his mouth reddened and spit-slick. old, pale scars stretched across his skin in places, jagged knife wounds or puckered bullet holes, and a sickly-looking yellow bruise is spread across his ribs on his left side.

he was handsome, in his way, but worn, and hardly what one would call beautiful; still though, the sheer  _want_ that albert feels is like a punch to the gut, leaving him near breathless.

and arthur watches him, too, blue eyes intent, and he holds his breath as albert smooths his palm flat over his chest, pausing with his hand pressed to his stomach; he can  _feel_ it, the way that the quiet hangs between them like something physical, and then albert thumbs the button on arthur’s trousers and the sharp intake of breath breaks the silence. 

“may i?” albert asks, quiet as if hesitant to make any noise at all, and arthur lets out the breath he’d been holding and nods. 

his hands don’t shake but it’s a very near thing, and albert doesn’t quite have the wherewithal to meet his eyes; he’s hardly any sort of blushing maiden, but he can feel his face warm regardless. still, he makes short work of the button and zipper and when arthur sits up to kick out of his trousers and underclothes, he tugs albert into a kiss.

it’s soft, really, almost tender, and albert can’t help the way that he all but melts into it. arthur’s fingers trail lightly across his stomach, along the waist of his trousers, and albert shivers at the touch and gives a breathy,  _“oh.”_

arthur smiles against his mouth and albert kisses him harder, cupping his face in both hands; his short beard prickles his palms. albert pushes him back to lay against the bed and arthur goes easily enough, out of either uncertainty or compliance, and he starts only a little when albert slides his hands flat down his chest, following them with soft, open-mouthed kisses.

he’s holding his breath, albert can tell, and he squirms just barely when albert brushes a kiss over his belly, but he reaches out before he can go much lower. “ _what_ are you doin’?”

“i’d think that was obvious,” albert answers, and when he glances up arthur’s face is red, something strained in his expression. albert smiles, gentle. “not if you don’t want it, though.”

arthur is quiet for a moment, staring, and his throat works as he swallows, but finally he nods. he squeezes albert’s shoulder once before letting go. “i ain’t gonna ask you for that.”

“i assure you, i’m offering.”

the only response is a quiet sigh from arthur when albert dips down to press a kiss against arthur’s hip bone. carefully, he watches arthur’s face as he curls his finger’s around the other man’s cock, already half-hard in his grip. his eyes flutter and his thighs tense, but there’s no protest, and when albert drags his thumb over the tip arthur gives a strangled sort of groan.

the sound tapers into something that could almost be called a whimper as albert replaces his thumb with the flat of his tongue. arthur is quiet, mostly, even when albert takes him in his mouth; he just draws in a trembling breath and brings a hand to albert’s hair, neither pushing nor pulling, just resting.

albert sighs hard through his nose and moves, taking as much into his mouth as he could, hand covering what he couldn’t; he hums and drags his tongue along the thick vein on the underside, and arthur’s fingers tighten in his hair as the other man curses. he sucks, just a little, and arthur’s hips twitch involuntarily.

he feels almost powerful like, with so much control; when albert glances up, arthur’s eyes are closed, his brows pinched in concentration, his mouth slightly open. he pulls back with a wet-sounding  _pop_  and strokes the cock in his hand, pulling the foreskin back to tongue at that sensitive spot just below the glans, and arthur  _whimpers._

“albert,” he pants, breathless, tugging at the photographer’s hair. it’s not something that albert has particularly enjoyed before, but he finds that he quite likes it now, arthur’s hand gripping at the dark curls. “you keep that up and i ain’t--”

“then don’t,” albert says simply, and he kisses the head of arthur’s cock and listens the the outlaw’s sharp breath, a press of pursed lips to the sensitive flesh. 

arthur gives some choked reply when albert swallows him down again, abandoning the slow, probing pace from before and instead adopting something faster, intent on wringing as many of those noises from arthur as he can. he presses his palms to arthur’s hips, both to anchor himself and to try and keep the other man still, feeling him strain against the pressure, muscles tensing.

“ _albert_ ,” he gasps out, pulling on albert’s hair near to the point of hurting, and it’s the only warning before he’s coming, shaking and trembling as it washes over him. albert doesn’t move away- in part because he  _wants_ to, but also because he doubts he could, arthur holding him in place- and swallows thickly the other man’s spend, sucking gently until arthur’s grip on his hair loosens.

he drags the back of his hand over his mouth when he pulls back and grins when arthur looks at him, eyes half-lidded and breathing heavy. he’d hard, near aching with it, but he palms his cock through his trousers for only a moment before sliding up and tucking himself against arthur’s side. when he speaks his voice is hoarse.

“are you alright?”

“fine,” arthur answers after a long moment, and he rolls over on his side to look albert in the eye, something considering in his expression. a bit hesitantly, his eyes flicking briefly down the length of albert’s body before returning to his face, he says, “how’re you?”

“oh, i’m fine as well.”

“are you now.” the words are dry, and not a question.

albert huffs and reaches out to drag his fingertips lightly over arthur’s cheekbone, feeling inordinately pleased when the other man leans into the touch, catching his wrist to press a kiss against his pulse-point. “yes, i’m fine.  _don’t_ worry yourself over me.”

but arthur just looks at him again before pulling him into a nearly-bruising kiss by the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, his hand skimming down albert’s chest and stomach to flutter uncertainly at the waistband of his trousers. albert breathes deep, swallowing the whine that catches in his throat; says, “are you sure?”

arthur grunts something that sounds like an affirmative, and albert scrambles to undo his buttons, shoving down his trousers and underthings as arthur licks his palm and curls his fingers around albert’s cock. arthur’s hand is rougher than his own, callused, and albert makes a needy noise and rocks into the slow strokes.

“mister morgan,” albert says, and though he tries to keep his voice steady he knows it cracks in the middle. nevertheless he cover’s arthur’s hand with his own and tightens his fingers, rolling his hips against the man’s fist.

he likes he noise that rumbles through arthur’s chest when albert says his name like that,  _mister morgan,_ breathless and wanting. he knows he won’t last like this; arthur is something that he’s wanted for too long, his hands and his mouth and his voice, the press of their bodies, the way he kisses and the sounds he makes. it’s what albert had fantasized about nearly since the day they’d met, touching himself in the dark of night and pretending that his hands weren’t his own.

and that pressure builds, hot and pulled taut in his gut, like a string that’s been stretched to snapping. when it  _does_ snap, when he comes, he presses his mouth hard to arthur’s to muffle the groan that had worked its way up his throat, spilling over the joined hands. arthur strokes him through it, gentling, his grip loosening, until albert is boneless against him.

they lay there like that for a bit, quiet and breathing heavy, sweat turning their skin tacky, until albert rolls up to pull a handkerchief from his bag to clean up with, nose wrinkling as arthur just drops it to the floor when he’s finished. but that displeasure doesn’t last long as arthur drapes an arm about his middle and pulls him close, kicking his war beneath the mussed blankets; albert takes a moment to wriggle out of his remaining clothing before joining him, pressed skin-to-skin.

“so,” arthur drawls eventually, nosing against albert’s neck, and albert hums lazily. he sounds amused. “what’s this ‘bout you bein’ in love with me?”

albert doesn’t answer immediately; the outlaw  _had_ sounded amused, he’d been right about that, but there’s some uncertain undercurrent there that albert couldn’t place, some nameless vulnerability. he cards his fingers through arthur’s shaggy hair as he searches for an answer.

“remembered that, did you?” albert says wryly, and arthur presses a soft, open-mouthed on albert’s throat. “yes, mister morgan.  _arthur._ yes, i’m in love with you.”

though it seems unnecessary, arthur asks, “and i ain’t the first man you been in love with, am i?”

“no, you’re not.”

“well,” arthur says, and he drags the word out, edged with nervousness, though albert couldn’t exactly say  _why._  “i reckon you’re the first man  _i’ve_  been in love with, mister mason.”


End file.
